Speech Therapy

As  I drove into the driveway  I  left  the  speech therapist  part of myself in the car. She would sleep there and charge her batteries overnight.  Helping people speak and find their voices was exhausting. Especially when  voices in my own head were struggling to emerge. Taking a swig of the special potion I kept in the dashboard, I called out to my other selves. I had left many of them behind in the garage that morning. Walking to the door unhurriedly, I savoured the brief interlude between my many worlds.  It was a full moon night, and tonight’s moon looked as if she had many secrets waiting to be told. A breeze blew my hair onto my face and whispered something in my ears. I listened and then took a deep breath as I turned the key in the lock.

I was about to push  the door open, but the dogs beat me to it. Appearing  from different parts of the garden, they knocked me over with a boisterous show of doggy love. Before I even knew it, I was  buffeted over the threshold into the house. To steady myself, I sank into a pile of giant cushions piled up on the rug near the door and looked around. The courtyard in the middle with its opening  to the sky, grassy carpet, fish pond  and  rich green  foliage was a soothing balm. The gold fish in the pond did a perfect summersault, flapping her translucent bright orange fins and smiling at me.  A cream and pink lotus waved out her welcome, an epitome of gentleness and grace. The fig tree did a haughty little jig accompanied by the little umbrella palms, who were ever willing to dance. I felt good to be home.

Tonight I had the house to myself. My daughter Aparna  was  at a sleepover  party  with her  friends. I  longed for these rare evenings of solitude when I could catch up with the spirits who make my life what it is. And I hoped that a special spirit would make an appearance tonight. I turned on the table lamp with the Chinese dragon base. A warm yellow light filled the living room and I could feel myself being suffused by the glow.  In the silent house, I could hear the water babbling in the pond. This was a sign. Suddenly, I couldn’t  wait any more.

I ran upstairs and stood in front of my most favourite magic mirror. The one with the hand painted frame. I had fallen in love with it instantly on a trip to Jaisalmer. Just touching base with the djinns,  I  told myself as I peered into  the mirror. It was working!   I could see the faces of two wizened old men who had painstakingly created twenty four intricate floral motifs on the frame.  Each motif had it’s own distinct  flowers and leaves. Today I told them how much I loved the way their colour palettes complemented each other so perfectly. They smiled back at me, incredulous that someone so far away was delighting in their craft after ninety nine years. I blew a kiss at them and when I inhaled I could almost smell the fragrance of those flowers. Although the potion needed a little more time to work properly, some of its magical powers were kicking in.

As I pirouetted around in front of the mirror, I couldn’t help but marvel at my saree. The pallu was a  silken tapestry  of  peacocks and parrots.  Once again, I sent out a silent message of admiration and awe. In a few moments they appeared in the mirror.  A middle aged couple and their son, were working on a loom so simple, in a room so basic, it was hard to believe this elaborate and complex fabric was made there. ” Where   are you?” I asked hesitantly, not sure if I would be able to hear them. But  their voices  came through. “ In a village near Sambalpur in Orissa”  they said  as they showed  me  how they dyed   yarn in measured patches  and then created patterns on  the loom.    Sheer magic, how flowers and birds emerged from the dyes on the yarn! When their voices  faded, I  folded my saree and smoothed it down,  running  my fingers over the  borders  patterned  with brilliantly coloured dancing peacocks. I think I even heard their mating calls. The potion had taken effect.  I changed into my home clothes, my brilliant green stole and flew downstairs like a parrot.

I was now ready for the most important visitor of the evening. And thanking her would be different from thanking those who crafted my clothes. I found myself getting nervous. There were goose bumps on my arms. Picking up clothes, books, bags and shoes from different parts of the house, I finally entered  Appu’s brightly painted  room.  As I put her books back into their special little nooks, they looked at me gratefully. The keyboard was silent for a change and her computer screen blank.

Sitting on  her  bed, surrounded  by  dolls of  all sizes,  I recalled  the last conversation we’d had about her  birth. “But why would anyone give me away, ma?” Appu wanted to know. She was angry, sad and confused. The tears were brimming, and she couldn’t hold them back. “Darling, she was giving you a life.  I ‘m sure she did what she felt was the best she could do for you.” This was not explanation enough. “ Do you think she gave me up because she had no money, ma?”    Though I knew that money had nothing to do with it, I couldn’t say so. Appu was too young and too fragile to understand the plight of a unwed mother. “If  there was  any way she could  have kept you and looked after you herself, I don’t think she would have  given  you up”  I said, holding her little moist  hand in mine.

But Appu had another question. “Ma, do you think she felt sad to leave me there at the adoption house?”  I had chosen my words carefully before answering.” Yes Appu, it must have been very very hard.  We will never know who she is or where she is, but I always think of her as a brave and strong woman. I now see that kind of courage in you as well”.  She went quiet then. I knew she needed time to deal with that sense of abandonment. I held her close and that night she slept with her arms and legs wrapped around me. The next morning, as I was braiding her hair for school, she was looking at herself in the mirror with a thoughtful expression. “Ma, I am not really angry with my other mama, but I don’t know how to tell her that.”

That was almost a year ago. Today I hoped to convey Appu’s message to her birth mother. But my heart was pounding so loud, I wondered if that would scare her away. I decided to lie down, be calm and send her my message. In a while, I felt her presence.  I looked into Appu’s mirror and saw the silhouette of a tall statuesque woman. She kept her face averted. All I could see was the ebony black hair, a long neck and beautiful arms. I waited for her to speak.   I guess, she was nervous as well. We began talking at the same time, and then stopped. 

I decided go first and assure her that her child was doing well.  “Appu is a lovely warm child, and I am blessed   to have her in my life”, I began.  The spirit was still, but I knew she was there, hanging on to my every word. “She is happy, healthy and has a lot of friends. Her best friend is the girl next door. She loves history, hates maths, dotes on dogs madly, reads mysteries and sings non- stop when she is at home.”  I said all that in a jumbled rush and paused, not sure what to say next. What do  you say to the birth mother of your daughter, her daughter, I wondered.

The spirit remained invisible though muffled sobs were audible and the mirror shook gently. “Let me get some pictures” I said and pulled out the album with photographs of Appu from the day I first saw her at the adoption centre. “She has your skin and hair” I said as I showed her  all the pictures and explained  the  big  milestones. Appu’s  first  haircut, first tooth, first shoe bite, first day  in a school uniform, first  visit  to the zoo and  more recent ones  of her  twelfth  birthday  party.  I didn’t have any pictures of her tantrums, tears, and tirades, but recounted those as well along with tales of her triumphs in swimming and dancing. I couldn’t stop talking,  it was like a cascade of memories that couldn’t be contained anymore.

“Thank you for telling me all this” she whispered at last. “And don’t worry, I haven’t come to disrupt her life in anyway.  When I left her at the adoption centre, they told me they would find her a loving home.  I knew they would keep their word. But never seeing or touching my child has left a void deep inside.  That pain may never go away. But I want to thank you for loving her so dearly”

“Don’t thank me” I cried, “I have done what I wanted and it’s me who should thank you.  I cannot imagine my life without her. “Now it was my turn to break down. I  so wanted to tell her how much I admired her for carrying her pregnancy  to its full term, for  facing  ridicule and  anger, for taking care of herself  to give birth  to a healthy child, knowing she would be giving her up. The staff at the  at the adoption centre had told me she stayed  there for last two weeks  and  had left sobbing,  immediately  after  the child was born. She had silently signed all the papers without asking to see  the infant.

 “I want you to know that I have told Appu a hundred times, she must always be proud of her birth mother, her courage and her gift of life”. And then I heard a deep sigh. It was as if the grief and guilt gnawing and tearing at her soul could now be put to rest.  I thought I felt a light touch on my forehead and then she was gone.  

I cursed myself. I had wanted to confess that in my case, discovering a pregnancy when I was insecure and broke, had led to an abortion after much deliberation. I wished I could tell her that I knew her torment, admired her strength and spirit. But no words came out.  I shut my eyes and a tortured whimper escaped me.  So much for being a speech therapist, I thought as I wandered around the house in a stupor of sadness. 

I went up to the roof to clear my head with the night air. Looking  down  at the courtyard, the  heart  of the  house,  from  two floors above always helped me look at my  life with a different perspective. The moon seemed to be floating in our pond, flirting with the gold fish who was doing a back stroke and staring at the stars. I stepped on to the ledge and for a moment the building did not exist. I was suspended between the stars winking in the sky and the moon swishing around in slime at the bottom of the pond beneath the lotus leaves.  I recalled the days before my decision to abort, when a friend had called me from Geneva. She had just become a single mum and her family had celebrated along with her. I have never felt so jealous of anyone.

What a world, I thought. One single woman, fearing stigma, has to give up her child because she  is not married, and another single woman adopts the same child to find happiness. Society  had applauded  her too, unaware of her secret.

I was suddenly aware of how exhausted I was, and hungry as well.  I walked down the stairs to the kitchen.  Opening the fridge,  I chose  only  those veggies, spices, herbs and meats  that called out to me eagerly. Spicy Moroccan style  soup  would be my dinner. Chopping up carrots, potatoes and beans and putting them to boil, I listened to each one. They were fed up of being locked in a cold dark place and seemed excited to be reaching their destined destination.  As their juices and flavours seeped out and fused   into the bubbling broth, the steam that rose spoke to me of farmers in fields far away. The potato farmer looked most distressed, while the ones who grew onions were teary eyed. I took a sip of simmering soup. It tasted of toil and trauma and yet its tanginess titillated my taste buds.  I thanked all those who had laboured to give me my food and wished them well. I promised myself that the  next  time I met with  spirits,  farmers would be my special  guests.

By now  the aromas  were wafting around, lifting  me up, beckoning me  to pay attention  to my tired and weary   body. I sat down  near the fish pond  with my bowl, absorbing the light from far away stars, the sounds  of water gurgling, the  fragrance  of the lotus  and the silken coats of the  dogs at my  feet. All my senses were being nourished together. Only my unspoken questions, muted rage and silent tears remained.Waiting to be voiced.